


Mountains Crowned with Fire

by Ashwind3791



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Beacons of Gondor, Duty, Family, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:28:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25481683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ashwind3791/pseuds/Ashwind3791
Summary: "We are born on this mountain, we live on this mountain, and we will die and be buried on this mountain." Brendil of Erelas has never left his mountain, bound by an oath sworn centuries ago by ancestors long-dead. He waits on the beacon-hill, gazing ever-East towards the rising sun. Yet the peak of Nardol remains white and barren.
Relationships: None
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Mountains Crowned with Fire

_"The beacons of Gondor are alight, calling for aid. War is kindled. See, there is the fire on Amon Dîn, and flame on Eilenach; and there they go speeding west: Nardol, Erelas, Min-Rimmon, Calenhad, and the Halifirien on the borders of Rohan."_

_-Gandalf,_ _Return of the King_

* * *

The room was chilly and the fire had burned down to embers when I woke, my eyes needing a moment to grow accustomed to the darkness of the room. All was quiet and my family slept, my three sisters in bed and curled together for warmth; my mother and the babe in their own bed, though my father was absent and my uncle Torrin's bed empty. My father must have left earlier to relieve my uncle and take up the watch.

Creeping silently from under the quilts and furs, I danced a few steps as my feet first reached the cold floor, scrambling into my clothes and old leather boots. The thick linen shirt had always been mine but the woolen tunic was once my father's, as were the breeches, while the boots and the cloak had been my uncle's. These were mine now, until I outgrew them, when they would become one of my sister's, or perhaps the babe's. As I slipped out into the early morning air, I was grateful for their warmth.

My mountain greeted me, it's peak scarcely 400m above me and the rest spread beneath me, the gray rocks, and green valleys, and blue lakes that I knew so well. I had been born on this mountain fourteen summers ago on a starless night when the air rang with shrieks of agony. My father too had been born on this mountain, and my grandfather, and his father before him, and all my ancestors stretching back to a time beyond the memory of our family when it is said that the founder of our line accepted the post from Cirion, Ruling Steward of Gondor, himself!

Our great duty is merely to watch the horizon, as our ancestors did before, for the sign of a fire that may never appear. As eldest son, this will be my task, my burden to bear. So while my sisters and the babe may one day leave our mountain for one of the villages nearby, I know that I will never dwell elsewhere.

When I was a child and dreamt of being a hero this was a struggle to accept - for what glory can be found on a single mountain where there are no great battles fought, nor any grand deeds to be accomplished? What renown can be won when there are none to know of one's honour or to hear of their courage, even if a notable act is committed?

In the darkness before dawn, I shook myself from my thoughts and went to fetch water from the stream. Usually swift flowing and somewhat treacherous, it had grown a thin coating of ice during the night which I quickly shattered. Plunging my face into the frigid waters, I drank deeply before filling my bucket and beginning one of the many trips that it would take for me to fill the water barrel.

Thirty-and-one trips it took to fill the barrel, but I was finished within the hour and went to tend the horses. Each day I must muck their stalls, feed them, groom them and check them for soundness. Sometimes it is also my duty to exercise them, but often this falls to the soldiers or my uncle.

My family have always been nobles, though minor ones, but we have not been to court in over seven generations. My father is rightly Lord of Erelas, though I've heard him called so only once, when Grandfather died and he took the oath to watch and keep forever his post unto death, unless the world end or the king return and summon him. We are the Lords of the mountain - but we may never leave it for to do so would be to forsake our duty and become forsworn, traitors and oathbreakers who might be justly executed under the law.

Now, unbolting the stalls and unhinging the gate, I let the horses stream through and roam the valley where they stay each morning. It is hemmed in on three sides by the sheer rocks of my mountain, and the fourth side is secured by the gate I now latch. While they frolicked in the morning air I mucked the stables and set out the hay, measuring it carefully to ensure that they were receiving their daily amount and no more. Our supply would not be replenished until the traders came in high summer.

When the sun crested the mountaintops I was finished and returned to the house so that I could break my fast. Adaliel, my eldest sister, passed me a plate with warm bread fresh from the oven, goat's cheese, and an egg, with ale to drink. I smiled in thanks before downing it quickly and packing a meal for my father. After considering a moment, I quickly snatched another egg and slice of bread, in case I should grow hungry later.

My father waited for me on a ledge of rock, only 150m from the mountain's peak. Above him was my uncle, tending the wood that was our sacred duty to maintain while my father stood his watch. Greeting me with a weary smile, my father silently accepted his breakfast and, slightly grudgingly, I gave my spare food to my uncle. 

As my father and my uncle ate, I sat at the watch post and glanced into the horizon. Day after day, year after year, I would peer into the east after the rising sun. I imagined that such a task would soon become both bleak and tedious but for now, while it remained my father's burden, I felt the faintest stirring of excitement deep in my stomach and heard the echo of the words my mother had told me long ago when my father swore his oath in our ancestors' name.

 _Brendil_ , she had said softly, _your father has sworn no small thing tonight, and one day you shall swear the same oath. I know that there will be days when you shall find your task hard and thankless, perhaps even idle, and you shall turn to despair. Yet you must keep your watch, and do your duty, for that is the pledge that your ancestors made in their own name and in that of all their descendants. You cannot escape that bond._

_Even so, child, do not lose heart, for this task is greater than you can know; given unto your line by Cirion, the Ruling Steward of Gondor! You are to be the watcher who guards the kingdom and sends word through the night of threatening danger._

My mother's sweet words had been a healing balm for the child's soul that was wounded when he discovered that he would never leave the mountain to seek glory. Even now, when I was a child no longer, I held the words close to my heart and dreamed of lighting the fire so the horselords could ride to deliver Gondor from her enemies.

Now, straining my eyes, I looked for the awaited sign. But, as it had been every time I gazed before, the sky was empty, the peaks of Nardol and Min-Rimmon white and barren. The excitement died and, when my father was finished his meal, I ceded to him the watch before scampering down the rocks and back to the stable. 

At dusk, when I returned to the ledge to relieve my uncle Torrin and take my shift on watch, I was weary and longed for bed. The night was chilly, the air even colder than it had been in the morn, and I yearned for the warmth of my down quilt and furs. Instead, I had only my cloak for warmth, my knife for protection, and my pouch, in case the sign should appear. Four hours of lonely boredom awaited me before I could make my way to my beckoning bed.

In spite of that, as I took my post and glanced down at the world spread out beneath me, I felt again that quiver of anticipation and swelling of hope. Perhaps there were be a pinprick on the horizon. Perhaps the sign would appear, while I was on watch, and it would fall to me to complete the great duty of my house. Perhaps, in that way, I would gain the glory I had desired as a child. And throughout the stories of our family, passed down from generation to generation, my name would be remembered and acclaimed: Brendil, son of Brendor, who had crowned the mountain with light!

All of these dreams tumbled through my thoughts and eagerly I glanced up at the sky. But, as before, the horizon was bare and lifeless, and at once my hopes shattered, scattering on the wind. I was fourteen summer, a man practically grown, and could no longer play games like a child, nor desire lofty dreams which would never occur outside my imagination.

Leaning against the strong slope of my mountain and closing my eyes, I sternly reminded myself that I must be satisfied with my own life. I would remain on my mountain, I would marry a pretty woman, I would father many strong sons, and I would do my duty. My reward would be my untarnished honour, and my task would then be given to my children, whose lives would mirror my own. It was wrong of me to think otherwise, and now I must stop dreaming and attend my watch.

All this I told myself firmly, and counted to three that I might compose my mind and banish any final thoughts of magnificence. When I opened my eyes, I would tend my watch and be strong and unyielding, a solemn and dependable man - until tomorrow when surely this very same struggle would play through my mind. It had repeated itself often enough.

Setting my lips determinedly, I opened my eyes, blinked, gasped, and let out a wordless cry. Springing to my feet and staring disbelievingly into the distance, I wondered if I were dreaming or imagining things. Closing my eyes and opening them again, I pinched myself and winced, before nearly tumbling from my ledge as I lurched into motion. It seemed incredible, preposterous, impossible, but _there was a flame on Nardol!_

Even as I watched, the firelight glinting off the melting snow grew stronger and brighter until there was no mistaking it for anything but the beacon-fire, the sign that my family was sent here to watch for, the signal that we had been awaiting for years upon years. The signal that must be answered!

I ran, stumbling, tripping over rocks that had never before bothered me, my eyes still fixed upon Nardol's peak, unable to look away from the brilliant crimson and gold spark that was blazing through the darkness, illuminating the night.

When I reached the beacon that my uncle had tended just this morning, I fumbled with the strings of the pouch at my belt, struggling with nerveless fingers to open it. At last the knot came undone, a musky scent escaped it, and I plunged my hand in to withdraw the flint and the steel. Pouring the oil my uncle had prepared over the beacon, I withdrew the torch from its hook and, hands shaking, struck together the flint and steel, sending sparks flying through the air.

It took me four tries to set the torch alight, so badly was I quivering, but at last it burned brightly and I clambered up and held it over the beacon. With a whisper of a prayer, I thrust the torch onto the kindling, leaping back to prevent my body from being scorched by the flames that were now licking at the oil-soaked wood.

Panting with exertion and excitement, I turned away from the East, from the peak of Nardol which my ancestors had watched for hundreds of years, and instead gazed into the West from whence the Sea-Kings had come and where proud Min-Rimmon stood. I waited, quivering in the cold, the heat of the beacon-fire at my back, until I saw a spark of flame in the distance and the peak of Rimmon was crowned with a glorious light.

The ancient message of a beleaguered kingdom had been seen and carried, traversing thousands of miles in scant minutes. On this dark night, a call for aid had been sounded. Gondor had sent for the Rohirrim, reminding them of the oath that had been sworn many lifetimes ago, the aid that had been promised in the name of Eru, witnessed by the Valar.

Turning from the night's splendour, I sprinted down the mountain, heedless of the darkness and fleet as a deer. Hollering at the top of my lungs, I burst into the valley and was immediately surrounded by irate members of the garrison who did not appreciate being woken in the middle of the night.

Encircled by guardsmen, I stood outside our door, hands braced against my thighs, waiting for the Lord of Erelas to come forth. From inside came the wailing of Willem, the babe, and my father wearily emerged. I stared at him for a few seconds, at loss for words, before dropping to one knee, the symbolic gesture seeming appropriate in the moment.

"Brendil," my father warned, his voice dangerously low. "If it is by some foolishness that you have abandoned your post and woken us all…" He did not need to voice the threat, I was sure that the consequences would be hideous.

"My lord," I said solemnly, "I have fulfilled my duty. The beacons are lit."

Speechless he turned and beheld the peak of Erelas, and the garrison stepped away from me to marvel. My father allowed Erelas' glory to fill his sight before striding over to stand above me. With a gentle hand he tugged me to my feet, embracing me warmly and pressing a kiss to my disheveled head.

"That I should have lived to see this day," he murmured in wonder before breaking away and calling to my mother and sisters, crying for all to come out and gather. The settlement congregated outside our manor and I pointed to the distant peaks of Nardol and Min-Nimmon which had been lit before my eyes; listening to the excited chatter of my sisters, the awed murmurs of the garrison, the humming of Uncle Torrin to Willem, and the encouragement of my father who was bursting with pride. This had been a dream of his, I realized, as surely as it had been one of mine.

Only my mother and the captain looked grim, solemn where we were exuberant, gazing East with fear instead of euphoria. Curious, I wandered closer, wondering what could be upsetting them on this marvelous night.

"On behalf of the Lord of Erelas, I thank you for your service, Captain," my mother said quietly with exquisite dignity.

"It has been an honour, my lady," he replied. "We ride for Minas Tirith on the morrow but I shall leave you a garrison of thirty men. Will that be enough," he asked deferentially.

"Aye, sir," my mother said decidedly, "it will more than suffice. Have your men eat their fill in the morning, they ride to Gondor's defence."

"Your generosity is without bounds, lady. We are grateful. It shall be remembered," the captain responded.

It was only then that I perceived the implications of Nardol's blazing peak, of the message that had traveled between from Gondor to Rohan: Minas Tirith cried out in dire need. The garrison who had been with us for a year and eight months would return to Gondor four months before their tour had finished. They marched for war.

As if sensing my sudden dismay, my mother turned to me with a smile and slung an arm around my shoulder.

"Do not despair, Brendil, not when you have triumphed this night. From Amon Din to Halifirien an important message has been carried and you performed your duty with honour. In the days to come, men will remember the lighting of the beacons!"

"But… Minas Tirith," I protested, for Gondor was certainly being threatened.

"The City has stood for three thousand years and will stand for three thousand more," my mother announced firmly. "You have done your part to defend it. How can you doubt that the light will triumph when you gaze at the resplendence of the seven peaks? How can your faith waver when you see that star still burning in the sky," she asked, pointing to Gil-Estel, the star of High Hope.

Watching the glimmering star of Eärendil, I felt renewed hope leap into my soul, and I recalled the joyous instant when Erelas' peak had sprung to life. The brilliant light of the mountains extended as far as my eyes could see and seemed to reflect the radiance of Gil-Estel, which was said to have once been a Silmaril stolen from Morgoth's crown.

In defiance of the Dark, that jewel shone every night with a light so dazzlingly incandescent that it could bring hope to the most despairing heart. It lit mine with a sudden fire that made me long to pick up a blade and ride to war on the morrow to fight on Gondor's behalf. The faith that star inspired renewed my childhood dream of glory, and the desperate days that had now dawned encouraged it.

But that was not my place, I realized. That was not my duty. I was a man now, born on the mountain of Erelas, sworn to the defence of Gondor, bound to keep my post until the coming of the king or the ending of the world. My place was here, on my mountain, where I would watch and wait, and which I would die defending should that become necessary. In my heart I accepted this, and knew that the struggle would never again take place. Truly now, I belonged to my mountain.

Bending, I kissed my mother's cheek, and strode up to stand beside my father. Like him, I watched the horizon and marveled at the glorious fire.

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> When I was watching Return of the King for the first time, the sequence in which the beacons of Gondor were lit was particularly moving for me. Not just due to the stunning cinematography and the gorgeous views of New Zealand, but also the glimpse that we are given of those who had to actually travel to the peak of the mountains to light the beacons.To borrow some words from Gandalf, "it [was] a small everyday deed of ordinary folk that [kept] the darkness at bay." This story is for all those who perform such acts without gaining any renown.


End file.
